


The Stoicism of Ignis Scientia

by PikaCheeka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22907248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: Just because his uncle worked for the Crown, it didn’t mean his father did. Or that he was from Insomnia at all.It was the luck of the draw that he was sent to Insomnia at the age of six. ...  But when Ignis turns sixteen and a decade passes since he was brought to Insomnia, the Empire wants him back. What for, he wishes he had never found out. It seems that everyone wants a chance at the Lucian pawn.Rating for future chapters. Warnings, pairings, and tags will be updated as I go.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22
Collections: Ignis whump February exchange





	The Stoicism of Ignis Scientia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lagerstatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/gifts).



> For Lagerstratte for the 2020 Ignis Whump fic exchange! Poor Lager gets gifts from me twice in a row. This fic is ONGOING with four parts planned; the other parts are drafted and will be up soon. I wanted to try and include as many aspects of the prompt letter as possible, so this fic starts off with the most…tame sort of whump and will gradually go up in intensity as it progresses.

**_Prologue_ **

Just because his uncle worked for the Crown, it didn’t mean his father did.

Or that he was from Insomnia at all.

It was the luck of the draw that he was sent to Insomnia at the age of six. The increasing unrest in Tenebrae spurred his parents to send him abroad, and they were able to do so because of their own connections to the Oracle’s family. King Mors, and later King Regis was more than pleased to have a member of a branch of the Fleurets guiding him.

But when Ignis turns sixteen and a decade passes since he was brought to Insomnia, the Empire wants him back. His mother passes away, and as the Fleuret name is passed through the women, Ignis’ wardship went to the Niflheim government, as that of any orphan of Tenebrae does.

As a relative of the Oracle, the Empire has the right to forcibly employ him, a privilege they’d never had to exercise because Ravus had willingly gone to them. But Ignis. Demanding that Ignis come to Gralea, that he leave Insomnia and his role as the Prince’s advisor, is too good an opportunity for the the Emperor to ignore. It’s the exact kind of subterfuge and animosity that he has enjoyed deploying during this cold war. Something he may or may not have cared about until Ardyn showed him how delightful it could be to relentlessly offend but never cross the line into an act of war. He can’t resist now.

Little Ignis Scientia will be a tragic sacrifice, a pawn in the ongoing cold war he has waged with King Regis Lucis Caelum for decades now. Unfortunate, but was he ever anything _but_ a pawn?

**_Chapter One – The Office_ **

He’s resilient. Iedolas Aldercapt gives him that. After twelve days of relentless paperwork, half of which in the Nifl language that he knows the boy barely even knows, Ignis hasn’t complained once.

Ignis had been sent over with a royal escort, a royal escort that the Emperor had unfortunately not considered. Titus Drautos had brought the teenager over, even carrying his lone suitcase as if he were the servant and not the other way around. Glauca would always be a mystery, strangely idealistic and brain-damaged in some way. Never mind though. It’s inevitable that Ignis will eventually uncover the double agent, and Iedolas will find a way to deal with it when it arises. Or he’ll pass the task off to the Chancellor.

Ignis is proud, as Iedolas discovers. Unsurprising; everyone in Insomnia seems to be an arrogant bastard. The kid knows that he’s smart, clever and ambitious, which means he’s unwilling to speak out when he knows he’s being exploited. A defect that the king already took advantage of, making him act as an adult and play parent to a toddler when he was only six. Ignis doesn’t complain and he doesn’t argue, just sticks his chin out and does whatever is demanded of him.

He’d seemed relieved at first when he learned that his job as Imperial Assistant was paperwork-oriented. When Iedolas had asked him what he had expected, the boy had only shrugged. Perhaps he’d expected death, physical torture, sexual assault, or any combination of the three. _Would he really think we are so barbaric?_ Perhaps, but regardless, he didn’t like Ignis being relieved, so right in that moment he’d decided that he would give him an impossible workload.

And if the boy didn’t break, he would pass him on. There was no limit on the amount of individuals in the Niflheim government who would delight in the chance to torment a Lucian brat, especially one with royal Tenebraean blood. Ravus was too old now to properly harass, and he was too easily driven to hysteria anyway. Only the Chancellor still hassled him, but he seemed to be living in another timeline as it was so perhaps it hadn’t grown old yet for him.

Yes, there are more than enough people here in Niflheim who would be all too happy to step in and help the process. The process of breaking the Lucian King’s royal adviser.

_____

He’s furious. Not that Ignis will allow himself to show his rage to the Emperor. He’d arrived here knowing he would be abused, knowing he would be harassed and dehumanized and condescended to. But he’d wrongly assumed he’d simply be tortured and eventually killed. Apparently, an incorrect assumption, one that has made him realize that his views towards the Empire were juvenile, misled by propaganda and the fears of the royal courtroom. It’s a perfectly civilized country, which somehow makes this all the worse.

He’s living in a beautiful city, but he is not allowed to explore it. His apartment is merely a closet-sized room, albeit one with a view, that is on the Emperor’s estate. Everything else he has seen has only been through the train windows.

Everyone around him is intelligent, sophisticated, nothing like what he was led to believe of the upper echelons of the government here. And so their torment of him is also intelligent, sophisticated, and therefore all the more cruel.

Interning, like it was a privilege. You can add it to your job resume under babysitting. Might be a bit more useful. The Emperor’s comment had made him quietly hateful, but more because what he said was _true_.

He’s miserable. He’s run down, exhausted, sick, but he has been learning things.

Things about sadism. Things about survival. And things about how to run a country, all the efforts put into it.

But right now, he can barely think about any of that. He is close to tears, slamming the Emperor’s stamp of acknowledgement and approval on yet another invoice. Invoices that were approved, but rarely paid. Niflheim, like Lucis, was swimming in debt, and all of the paperwork, the invoices and requests and checks and commissions, were ultimately meaningless because they were being funded by a ghost. Exactly the sort of work for Ignis.

For the first few days, he had found delight in this. He took mental notes, believing he could go back to the king and give him the details, but that delight had rapidly waned.

Because the Emperor made him work from 6 am to 8 pm every day. At least, those were his required hours. Unfortunately, he was always given so many daily tasks that even with his speed and competency, he was dragging himself to his new home at nearly midnight every day. He often fell into bed without even eating. He had a guard bang on his door at 4:30 every morning, which allowed him enough time for one meal and a shower every day, though little else before he had to head out.

Roughly four hours of sleep and one meal a day for nearly a month. His military training had allowed him to keep going the first few weeks, but by now things were catching up with him. He can barely see straight. His back aches, his head feels as if someone were hitting him with a pickaxe behind the eyes, his stomach feels shriveled, dull and aching. It isn’t the same as preparing for high school entrance exams, not by a long shot.

For one thing, half of the papers he is given are in a language he only has a rudimentary knowledge of. He’s had to teach himself on the spot and has been forced to make up a good portion of what he comes across. The Emperor must know what he’s giving him and there is no point in complaining about it. For another, there is a lot of legalese he is unfamiliar with in any language. He suspects much of what he is doing is important, but he doesn’t understand enough to see just how important. Or perhaps nothing is. It’s hard to care when he is this exhausted. And for a third, he doesn’t know why he is doing this or what his future is. There is no end in sight, no real goal, nothing to be working towards, and that, perhaps, is the worst of all.

Tonight, on the 27th night, he has stopped thinking entirely.

He groans and pulls a small bottle out of his pocket. _Using them so often is bad for your eyes._ He’d admonished Noctis about eye drops last hay fever season, but now he is using them every few hours. Not only do his eyes ache, throb, but he doesn’t want the Emperor to stop by and see him bloodshot. He hasn’t been _hit_ , hasn’t been threatened with violence or even pushed around, but he feels a visceral horror every time the Emperor turns his condescending gaze on him _. It will go badly soon enough, worse, worse than it already is, though I don’t know how or when or why it would come about._

Because as cruel as filing paperwork and being deprived of sleep is, he knows it can only get worse.

And worse it gets, because as he shakes his head, rubs the sleep from his eyes and groans, he hears the door open behind him.

There’s never a knock. Not that there really ought to be, he tries to reason with himself; he is working in one of the Emperor’s offices, after all. And it’s an honor, isn’t it? To be given this opportunity to see how an enemy state works? He tries to smile as he turns to face his new boss.

The Emperor doesn’t bother with a greeting. “You misfiled this yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, fighting back a yawn. Why now, at the worst moment? He doesn’t even know what the Emperor is waving at him, can’t muster the energy to care.

“You don’t seem very concerned about it.”

Ignis doesn’t respond. _Because I’m not concerned about it._

“It’s a submission from the Legislative House of the Imperial Assembly. Requesting permission to attack Casilinum. Do you know that town?”

“It’s…” he wracks his fevered mind, but nothing comes forth _. I misfiled that? I was even given that?_ He can’t remember ever seeing such a thing, can’t remember when or where it passed him. _And I might have killed people. I might have…_ “It’s in Lucis.”

A snort. “Maybe your king doesn’t know either. He doesn’t seem to care about anyone outside of Insomnia, after all. Nonetheless, you’re terrible at this, just as you are terrible at caring about your people. If you keep slipping, keep misfiling or stamping the wrong documents, you’re going to end up sanctioning an order to kill Lucians.”

Somehow that hadn’t occurred to him. _Am I really being forced to do such important work? What does that show about how much you care about your country then, if you’re willing to let me touch these things?_ But he doesn’t dare say it. He is also stung, as if every mistake he makes is a direct disservice to the king who raised him. He wants to rip the paper from his hands, read it for himself, demand to know if he had even touched it, ask if the Emperor planned to attack all along and was only trying to scare him, make him feel responsible for what would have happened no matter what. But still, he doesn’t dare. “I will be more careful,” is all he can say. “I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer for my inadequacies.”

“Are you doing well? Is this too much?”

He knows even if he admits it, he won’t be given a break. He will only be worked harder. “It isn’t too much. Perhaps the staple got caught on another paper and I placed the two together by accident. Or I was distracted a moment. It won’t happen again.”

“If you don’t think you can do this, I can pass you on over to the Chancellor? He’s always in need of help.”

A sense of dread rushes through his veins so quickly he feels that he has vertigo. “No, no,” he snaps back, bowing slightly in part to look humble and in part because he’s dizzy. The Chancellor makes him deeply uncomfortable, a visceral gut-fear he can’t describe or justify. He doesn’t want to be near him.

“I do think I might do that anyway. We are closing in on a month here, after all. It will do you good to learn more about the inner workings of our government from all sides. Ardyn can show you a bit of the Chancellor’s job, perhaps teach you some military tactics and history. Research Chief Verstael Besithia would love an extra pair of hands in the labs, I am sure; he usually relies on machines but likes someone to talk to, and he could teach you quite a bit about...” he trails off and glances at Ignis. “I don’t know what he does there, honestly. I’ve never wanted to know. That’s why I keep him so far away from me.”

 _He said that to scare me. I know he did. He doesn’t mean it. There’s nothing…_ but still he worries his lower lip and feels his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

“I think we are being most gracious in showing and teaching you so much. Far more than your king did. Show some gratitude, would you?”

 _I hate you_ , he seethes inwardly, fingers twitching now. He wishes he could draw his daggers, but this far away from the king’s magic, he is powerless. It might be worth it to go down fighting. And then it hits him. “I am most curious about magitek, I admit,” he says softly.

The old man smiles coldly now. “You could be. Though you ought to know, nothing will activate for you without the Chancellor’s permission. We had to worry about rogue agents getting ahold of things until he came up with a solution. And along the lines of weaponry, General Glauca could also probably use your help at some point.”

General Glauca creeps him out, but not in the way the Chancellor does, and not in the way the rumors of Besithia – whom he hasn’t yet met – do. At least he seems relatively mentally stable. He only nods at this.

“A month with him, then? You seem the least disturbed by him.”

Ignis hesitates, unsure.

“It isn’t a trick question. I am not like my…” Another pause.

“Then yes, the General,” he gasps out, quick and panicked, a sudden weight that had been pressing down on him lifted. Agency. He was suddenly offered a little agency, something to cling to.

“Would you like to go home early?”

Ignis glances at the clock. It is already well past his supposed work hours. He can’t trust him, even if he is feverishly exhausted. “I’ll finish this.”

“Good boy,” the Emperor smiles at him in that cold distant way of his, as nasty and unfeeling as the mountains outside. “I would expect nothing less from one trained by the King himself, even if you are letting him down with all of your recent _mistakes_.”

_Mistakes? Plural? What else did I do?_

-

After his five-minute shower and five-minute meal of cup ramen with frozen vegetables dumped into it, the first dinner he’s had all week, Ignis lies in bed and stares numbly at the ceiling. Mistakes. He’d make other mistakes, possibly placed other lives at risk. He doesn’t even remember everything he has done in the last several weeks, all of the paperwork being a blur. It’s impossible to recheck everything. Why is so little digitized in this damnable country? For all of its technology, it is remarkably behind…

He lasts about an hour, tossing and turning and growing more and more frantic, before he’s throwing the covers off and stumbling into the tiny kitchen of his apartment to find his shoes, the winter coat that is needed even in April, and his identification. He has to go back. He has to make sure his other mistakes were harmless, that nobody will die for his own laziness, his idiocy, his incompetence.

Sleep doesn’t matter. Not if as he sleeps, his mistakes lead to something horrific.

The guards glance at each other, a knowing, tired look, when Ignis approaches them, holding out his keycard. “Didn’t you just leave?”

“I didn’t finish something and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

His partner rolls his eyes, but they let him pass, let him swipe his card and enter the building as they radio the rest of the guards on the grounds to let them know that he’s there. Ignis still can’t shake the discomfort he feels at how much freedom he has here, at how much everyone apparently trusts him. It suggests that were he to try anything, a most cruel fate awaited him. It’s a deceptive trust, and it terrifies him. He knows he is a prisoner here.

It’s only when he gets to the office where he has done much of his work that he doesn’t know what he is doing. He must have filed thousands and thousands of reports in the time he’s been here.

He’s acting irrational, insane. What did I think I was doing? His lower lip trembles, somewhere between frustration and despair. And the only way he knows how to handle it is to persevere, get to work. So he starts up the computer, enters his credentials and immediately begins skimming through the documents in his general history across all sectors. A dozen, fifty, a hundred pages. Two hundred, three hundred. He has gotten good at speed reading, can knock off nearly five hundred pages in an hour out of sheer necessity. Only maybe half of the documents that had passed his desk were logged into one of the databases and he, ironically, wasn’t given the clearance to create new files or even edit most of them.

_Intentional. So I can never have a clear list of everything I have done. So the Emperor can throw things at me from time to time and say I made mistakes when it was something I’d never even touched. I can’t prove anything. I am left in constant doubt. I am here during my only time to sleep because…_

The room is spinning and the light is painfully bright, boring into his skull even as he closes his eyes and leans forward, squeezes them shut.

He comes to sometime after four in the morning, and when he sees the clock, sees that he has half an hour to run back to his apartment and pretend he was there all night so that he can come right back to work, he can’t make himself stand. Instead he calculates. Sixteen minutes out of the building and back to his abode, thirteen if he hurries. Five minutes to freshen up, change his clothes, make himself presentable. Seven minutes for a bowl of cereal, a coffee from the vending machine, and a piece of fruit. That gives him time, maybe five minutes.

Time enough, all the time he can allow himself to curl up on himself, cradle his face in his hands, and weep.


End file.
